


Wake me up when I scream

by StripedScribe



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Friends to Lovers, It starts very dark, M/M, Nightmares, Past Matt Murdock/Elektra Natchios, Post-Season/Series 03, Whump, did i mention whump?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-27 12:21:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20407669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StripedScribe/pseuds/StripedScribe
Summary: “I am weary of all our sad stories—not hearing them, but that we have these stories to tell, that there are so many.” ~Roxane GayPain was difficult, unruly, and incapable of letting go. But the things that gave Foggy pain paled in comparison to Matt’s demons, the monsters of memories that wouldn’t let him go.





	Wake me up when I scream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [major_general](https://archiveofourown.org/users/major_general/gifts).

> Bonus fic! I started writing this, realised quite how dark it was going, so abandoned it in favour of writing the fluffier Made for You. Came back and realised it was nearly finished, so here, more fic!

Trapped, the echoes of a building crashing down around him, fading away to a tortured silence. As heartbeats gave out, and bodies breathed their last struggled sigh. Bones snapped, skin bruises, blood wept over the rubble covered floor. Escape seemed impossible. Time moved oddly here, he was suddenly free, and then drowning, the weight of too many people’s deaths dragging him to the bottom of the Hudson. A chain of corpses, their blank faces taunting him, asking him, why couldn’t you do more? Why weren’t you good enough? They trapped him, cold dead limbs in a lover’s embrace, clawing at his skin. He fell through the bottom of the ocean, into an old hell. Nobu, and swords, an injury far too great. Time looped, he died, he struggled home, he hurt Foggy, he hurt Claire, he, he. He broke everything he had, any relationship he had with Foggy. Their argument repeated on loop, a hundred voices surrounding him, hating him. Lies and cover-ups, too many years of hiding who he was and what he could do.

A gunshot went off, his father died in front of him, over and over again. Each time, he was too slow, too small, too young to do anything. They kept him away from the other kids, for his, or their benefit.

Elektra, his love, dying far too many times. Hearing her heart stop, stutter into silence, on an abandoned rooftop. Her return, a ghost to haunt his living days, a memory etched into his mind of what should, or could have been. A deep mourning loss, a perfect fit, stolen from him. Other people could never compare to her.

In his sleep, he dies over and over again. The devil reincarnated, forced to a life of suffering, a life of protecting and saving. But who looks after the man who gives himself up to a city?

Sirens and screams rolled into one, a shriek of pain bursting from imagination to reality. He awoke, panting, sitting upright, as the covers fell from the bed, draping onto the floor. Wincing, as the movement tugged on a newly stitched wound, his ribs screaming in pain as he tried to calm himself, to breathe, to push away the memories.

“Matt?” A soft knock on the door accompanied the quiet voice, before it opened. Warmth from the light outside followed the figure in, the bed creaking as Foggy sat down next to Matt. “What happened?”

Words wouldn’t come to him, Matt shook his head, chest shuddering with hidden sobs.

“Hey, it’s okay. You can cry if you need to, let it all out Matt, I know, I know.” He moved closer, picking up the blanket and draping it back over his friend, resting a hand briefly on Matt’s back, before dropping it again, the nervous actions of a man unused to dealing with other’s pain.

Pain was difficult, unruly, and incapable of letting go. But the things that gave Foggy pain paled in comparison to Matt’s demons, the monsters of memories that wouldn’t let him go. How do you comfort a man who doesn’t know how to be comforted? He was soft, round edges, a mother’s boy, safe and secure in the life he had. Matt was hard, sharp corners, a feral creation forcing it’s way through life, to be loved, to be trusted, to be believed. An eternity of screaming in the void, ‘see me, believe me, I’m more than just a poor blind orphan.’ Of hiding behind masks and glasses, never settling on a true image, flickering between relentless demon and helpless lawyer.

It seemed, sometimes, as though Matt barely knew himself who he really was. Which personality, which alter ego was real, and which was the mask. His sobs broke into the world, a keening wail, muffled by the blanket scrunched up in front of his face. He shook, years of grief, of anger, bursting out of him like an uncaged beast, and the sound was pure agony to Foggy’s ears, the sadness, the emotion, rattling around the near empty room.

He hated himself, for not knowing how to help, for feeling so useless at fixing this grief, this broken heart. Moving closer, his hands wandered aimlessly, before reaching around, pulling Matt in towards him, a mess of emotion and blankets nestled into his chest. “It’s okay, it’s okay, I’m here, you’re not alone, you’ll never be alone again, I’ve got you.” Softly, he started to card his finger’s through Matt’s hair, calming, and muttering sweet reassurances. The wail tapered off, an unrelenting crying simmering down to soft sobs and sniffles, before a hoarse whisper “I’m sorry Foggy.”

The hand on his head stilled, before continuing, “You don’t get to be sorry for this, this isn’t something you can apologise for. We’ll talk in the morning Matty, you’re safe, it can wait, sleep for now, I’m not leaving you.” Softly, gently, he moved the pair of them, lying down, arms still wrapped around each other, as he continued to talk, quiet whispers of love, of reassurance. He stayed, even as Matt’s sniffles turned into the slow breath of sleep, even as his arm trapped beneath the other man’s torso became numb.

In the morning, they talked, and talked, and talked. Still wrapped up in blankets, and neither really wanting to let the other go, they spoke, on everything that had happened. There were tears and laughter, and when the sky grew dark again the next night, there was little discussion before they both retired to bed, together, wrapped up in a soft embrace.

That night, for the first time in a long while, Matt didn’t wake up screaming.


End file.
